The woman had been living in her cottage for a long time. She lived alone, had always been alone, and for years she had been content in her solitude. She didn’t care about people, they disturbed her. They were either too noisy or distrustful in their silence. She felt awkward amongst people.
However lately, getting older, she had started to fear. She wasn’t afraid of getting older. No, getting older was a thing not worth fighting against. She wasn’t fearful of death. Dying was the logical end to life. It should had been silly to be scared of death and she had never considered herself to be ridiculous.
She just didn’t want to die alone. She despised the thought of dying and nobody finding her for weeks, months, even years. She felt nauseated when she thought about her body, slowly rotting in the bed or maybe on the floor.
She didn’t want that to happen. She didn’t resent the changes that happened in the corpse after dying. She wasn’t a person of vanity and yet the thought of her rotting body, spreading odours into her beautiful rooms, disturbed her a lot. Somehow it didn’t feel good. It felt sad.
The shivers grew stronger and the woman went inside. She was tired. Tired of everything and before she went to sleep, she wondered would she ever have the power and time to find somebody